


R is for Return

by lillianschild



Series: Guy & Marian Acrostic Series [3]
Category: Robin Hood (BBC 2006)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-03
Updated: 2015-05-03
Packaged: 2018-03-28 18:48:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,181
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3865744
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lillianschild/pseuds/lillianschild
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A series of brief acrostic fics revolving around words beginning with the letters used to spell Guy and Marian's full names- Sir Guy (Crispin) of Gisborne and Lady Marian Fitzwalter.</p>
            </blockquote>





	R is for Return

**Author's Note:**

> This is the third one-shot in the series and is set around the time of the show's first première,“Will You Tolerate This?”

 

_I have often dreamed of a far off place_

_Where a hero’s welcome would be waiting for me_

_Where the crowds will cheer when they see my face._

_I will search the world, I will face its harms_

_Till I find my hero’s welcome waiting in your arms._

 

It's been a month since my return, thirty days of agonising wait wondering if today'll be the day when my dream's snatched away; four long months to distance myself from both the obscure deed which has added a new blemish to my already tainted soul and the young man who seems to have become the bane of my existence. 

I trace the new scar that adorns my upper arm, the slash which seems to mock the symbol of the promise of a reward for my perseverance- the wolf head I had tattooed when I set foot in England for the first time after my exile in Normandy. Three years, four winters; that's how long this indelible stain has accompanied me. 

Once again I don the trademark black uniform of Vasey's merciless henchman. I smother in wrappings the reminder of the mission that was charted the day my world and Isabella's turned to ash, the physical embodiment of the howling wolf living inside of me that yearns to be washed by the light of the moon and find a pack of its own where it could truly belong. 

I walk the dark and cold corridors of my master's domain and finish putting on my right leather glove to cover the hand she allowed to brush her cheek the day of my return when, hungry for the balm of her presence, I rode to her door; a pilgrim in search of a blessing long denied. 

I climb down the stone steps of Nottingham Castle and join the mounted men in the Gisborne livery awaiting me in the bailey. I grab the reins of my proud destrier and get in the saddle with as impassive a face as I can muster. Ten sacks of flour have gone missing from the store and the Sheriff's itching to have someone hang and I, his incompetent Master-at-Arms, has been commissioned with the task of identifying the culprit and tightening the noose. 

As we gallop through Sherwood Forest and I see the grounds of Locksley at a distance, her voice suddenly intrudes into my thoughts. I unconsciously pull up the reins and bring my horse to a canter; the memory of her impassioned plea for the plight of the poorest ringing in my ears and taunting me with the promise of a hero's welcome if I turned a blind eye to this trespass. 

“Sir Guy?” 

The prospect of a sweet reward is alluring and yet, the possibility of putting a new nail in the coffin that is my fragile and fickle alliance with Vasey so soon after my blunder in the Holy Land stays me. 

“Sir?”

There are days when I drive forward as if I were anaesthetised, impervious to the world around me. On those days it's only the prize I've been working so hard for that matters. But this isn't one of those days, and I find myself loathing my jailor and these shackles which deny me the hope she instils in me.

Stormbringer fidgets under me sensing my internal struggle. Ten sacks of flour would put bread on the table of the peasants in Locksley for a few weeks. I know what it's like to go days without a morsel when you're a child; I can still feel the gnawing hunger of two lonely kids reduced to stealing to survive another day.

One word. One counter-command and I could be the hero of the day- at least, in the only eyes that count for me. But then I remember these are the same villagers who had no qualms about condemning two orphans to a life of pain, shame and destitution, and I bark a command to the officer who's been eying me with a puzzled frown.

The censure in Marian's voice gets drowned by the stampede of hoofs as we charge into Locksley and all exits are secured for the round-up. Sentimentality is weakness and only a village of cowering peasants and a fuller dungeon can appease the man whose capricious and devious mind can either help me regain my title and lands or squash me like a worthless ant.

“Ten sacks of flour have gone missing from the store. They will be found. You'll be accounted for !” I warn the populace gathered on the grounds as I look down on them from my mount.”Who helped this... runt? Step forward now and I may show lenience. No?”

Two sacks. That's all my men manage to recover.

I squirm in the saddle, tightening my hold on the reins as my eyes alight on the small children- little more than babes- whose defencelessness brings back too many unsavoury memories.

I glance away to steel myself against the condemnation and disappointment I know I'd see reflected in her eyes if she were to witness my actions and, strengthening my impenetrable armour, I issue a new command, “The main perpetrators would be found.This crime would be punished, bring the boy.”

“Wait.... Guy of Gisborne! ” a voice shatters the tense silence.

I see him move through the crowd to come to the front; his strut and the quiver full of arrows on his back an omen of what's to come. The day I've been dreading is here at last. Robin of Locksley's back.

“ _Sir_ Guy of Gisborne to you,” the commander of my guards corrects him.

“ _Sir_ Guy of Gisborne,” repeats the young man in brown, making no effort to disguise the mock in his voice when using the title to address me. “My name is Robin. Earl of Huntington and Lord of this manor. Your services here are no longer required,” he adds, clearly relishing the moment of triumph as a servant steps forward to throw a cloak round his shoulders and join the whole hamlet in a bow of reverence to their returned Master.

He looks at me with undisguised defiance in his gaze. No words are necessary between us. Twenty years have elapsed but there's no doubt in my mind the young man who might have been my brother once knows who I am and what drives me.

Humiliation at Vasey's hands I've learnt to tolerate as a means to an end but Locksley's a bitter pill to swallow and yet swallow it I will. The time for him to get his comeuppance will arrive soon enough for one thing my treacherous master's taught me is that revenge is a dish best served cold. And so I make a strategic retreat.

He's the prodigal son who's welcomed with open arms and offered a fattened calf as a reward while I'm the eternal outcast left with scraps; lost and eager to be found.

Marian. I turn my horse and go to her. The promise of her love's all the hope I need to face another frost bitten day.

**Author's Note:**

> The extract of poetry at the beginning belongs to “Go the Distance” by Alan Menken & David Zippel from “Hercules” .
> 
> The lines of dialogue were taken almost verbatim from "Will You Tolerate This?" (S01E01). No infringement intended.


End file.
